


Welcome to Rivendell

by sian22



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Aragorn is a wise king, Coming of Age, Family Drama, Faramir's youngest son - Freeform, Physical Disability, Self-Acceptance, Welcome to Holland when you thought you were landing in Italy, and a good friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 07:55:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3760567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian22/pseuds/sian22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life’s river never does run straight. Theomund, young Prince of Ithilien, remembers the day he learned a needed lesson in geography from one who learned it long ago.   Written for the March Teitho challenge 'Sickness"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome to Rivendell

 

 

The summer of my fourteenth year I was consumed by one single goal.

 

I wanted to be a squire.

 

My brother Elboron had been. My cousin Elfwine was about to be.  Even my elder sister had spent two years in Edoras training with an eored.  Though whether it was more for needed training or Mother’s sanity I never dared to ask.

 

All the young men I knew were to be assigned _somewhere_ that coming year. It was natural for me to expect to be. I was Faramir, the Prince of Ithilien’s youngest son. I would train with my fellows, learn to defend the peace we all so cherished and my family had worked so hard to gain.

 

Thus it was that I had no serious doubts of my success when I finally spoke with my father in the golden light of a late afternoon.  We sat comfortably at ease underneath our precious mallorn tree.  It was Nórui and the day of my fourteenth birthday. Both full of Cook’s chocolate birthday cake (that new and wondrous treat made with a rare paste from far off Khand), Father and I were perusing with delight a history of Dol Amroth Prince’s sent by my Great-Uncle Imrahil.

 

 

Expecting Father’s customary thoughtful consideration I remarked that I hoped to train with the Swan Knights if they would have me.  Elfwine was going there. I very much wanted to be with him.

 

I remember the startled, worried look upon his face and my haste to explain my plans.  I had thought them through quite carefully.  I knew  he would be concerned with how I should get on (I had, after all, a challenge other the boys lacked, a muscle weakness I could not change).  I explained how routines and lessons and armaments could be changed to make it possible.  How I could enlist the aid I would surely need.  El was used to my affliction and could help with the tasks I could not easily do myself.  We would be a team.  A well-oiled one.  Forged during the long, joyous summers I had spent in Edoras and he in Emyn Arnen.

 

I was dumbfounded at the answer I received.

 

He carefully closed the precious book, set it upon the grass and turned his clear grey eyes upon me. They were my eyes, though mine had a hint of Mother’s bluer grey. Sometimes, as then, I found them disconcerting.  It felt as if they looked inside my very soul.

 

Gently, but firmly Father explained that it was quite simply out of the question. My hands were too weak to wield a full size sword. To train and ride on horseback for hours at time would fatigue me too very much. I could not bear the weight of the armour I must wear.

 

He was right of course.  All of that was quite true and why I had planned so carefully.  But ‘Out of the question’?  It was so unlike him not to listen before passing judgement I was quite simply stunned.

 

The expression in his eyes was agonized, but I did not see it for I was sitting, hands clenched, head bowed, the word ‘No’ running endlessly around my brain.   Whatever else he said did not register at all.  I did not speak.  My mouth felt glued by bitterness.

 

After a long and awkward silence, sensitive to my disappointment and not wanting to ruin the day, he suggested we speak about it later. I did not nod but in retrospect he must have taken my quiet for acceptance.

 

We rose and walked back toward the house, Father valiantly trying to distract me with tales of boarding parties and Corsair raids Great-Uncle had told him of.

 

I confess that during that first conversation I heard only an obstacle and in my own quiet, stubborn way (for in this I was very like my father’s temperament) I set about going around the immovable object to get at what I desired.

 

 

 

So it was that two months later I found myself in Father’s study, that cluttered but homey space that always seemed so full of possibility. Many great battles had been re-enacted there on cold or rainy days: Helm’s Deep if El was visiting or the Pelennor if Fin was around. As the baby of the family it usually fell to me to be the Dwimmerlaik, clothed in Father’s dress black cape and a pot upon my head. The incongruity of a Nazgul sporting the White tree embroidered on its chest was lost on us.

 

The battle that day was of quite another sort.

 

“You did what?!”

 

My previous words had finally broken Father’s attention from the scroll that he was filling with his enviably elegant hand. The quill was laid aside to join the jumble of its half-trimmed fellows upon the desk. He and the king planned to ride out that afternoon. A last few household matters were being laid to rest.

 

I raised my chin defiantly and set my shoulders back, unconsciously copying a posture he himself had perfected with his own father long ago. Only mine perforce was a little crooked. My back would not hold straight.

 

“I wrote to Uncle Imrahil asking him to take me on as squire.” The first bare trickle of perspiration pooled at my nape. It was always hot in Ithilien that time of year. Anyone with any sense had found an excuse to be down beside the River.

 

He blinked and sat back in the dark leather chair, drummed his fingers thoughtfully on its well worn rests. It simply had not registered that I would defy him in this way.  At first his voice was steely, that mix of perfect smoothness but unyielding stone I recognized from his role as local magistrate.

 

“Without our knowledge or permission?”

 

“You would have said no had I asked you write the letter.”   This was quite true but did not help.  My forthrightness only served to anger him the more.

 

“With good reason! Theo, how could do you do this? We spoke about it. I thought you understood?”

 

Long fingers picked up a letter from the desk and waved it sharply. “Now I understand why Imrahil has asked to meet with me at Council. He would not say what it was about.”

 

Trust my blessed Great-Uncle to be highly circumspect. He had written me back of course, discussed at length how the duties and the training might feasibly be modified for a year or so but not much more. I had no great illusions. I knew I could not train with heavy armour or control a full war horse. But I wanted the lore and lessons and dedicated time to work on what skills I had.  Emyn Arnen had too many distractions.  Mother’s workshop and the garden could swallow all my time if I let them to.  Lord Gimli had made me a lighter sword and I was very good with Elven knives.  Prince Legolas had gifted me a lighter mallorn bow and even Father had to admit my aim was very good. With El around to help I should be able to manage if I did all the tasks for shorter times.

 

“There is always a way around any difficulty that I meet. You were the one who taught me that. Technique is everything.”  Deliberately I imitated his more cultured tones, striving to inject a note of lightness.   My own accent owed more to Emyn Arnen than to Minas Tirith.

 

In retrospect this was a mistake.  He thought I was being disrespectful. The frown across his brows become a glower.

 

“I meant it for everyday things!” he exclaimed loudly. “That you should always try to do things for yourself before seeking help.”  With difficulty he lowered his tone, unclenched his hands and laid them flat upon the desk.

 

“Theo you have to be reasonable. It is too arduous. No matter how many accommodations Imrahil’s armsmaster decides to make you will need to study late into the evening. And at the very least you will be required to take care of your horse and kit. How will you manage a saddle when you cannot always tie your boots without some help?”

 

 _Valar_ he was right.  Sometimes my tired fingers simply refused to work.  But to be reminded in that moment only made my frustration boil the more. I had not imagined Father to ever be so very hard and implacable.  In vain hope more discussion would bring him round I tried to lay out the reasons I had rehearsed all summer long.

 

“I am a quick study. I don’t need hours of practise to pick something up. I have good muscle memory in what muscle I do have. El will help. He said he would.”

 

“What?!”  Father caught the implication of my words straight off. “Elfwine knows of this…this crazy plan?!”

 

I hesitated.  Of course I had enlisted my beloved cousin in the cause. And my uncle-King. Admitting to the former would not be my sharpest move but still he would find out _that_ quite soon enough.  Best to get it over with.

 

I nodded curtly, but had not reckoned with Father’s uncanny skill at sussing out the truth.  Grey eyes bored piercingly into my own.  

 

“Eomer knows as well?!”   A mixture of hurt and anger played quickly across the high and narrow face. 

 

 _Valar_ that last had done it. I was well and truly sunk.  

 

“How could you go behind my back this way? How?”

 

He was shouting. This did not happen often but when it did it usually made the recipient want to fall right through the floor. I, more mutinous than abashed, defiantly stood my ground. He was long used to ‘Bron’s sneaking round to taverns and Fin’s waltzing out in overly dramatic huffs. Why should I have to be perfectly biddable all the time?

 

Father rose behind the desk, furious at my continued silence, and crumpled Great-Uncle’s letter in his hand.  Perhaps I should have cringed.  Hardened battle warriors had quailed before that gaze.  I did not. 

 

“Theomund the subject is now closed”  I watched the paper fly disconsolately across the desk to land beside a stack of books.   “You are not going. I see I will have more correspondance to complete.” 

 

The use of my full given name was a warning I did not heed. I was too angry. The whole bloody thing was so unfair and I was going to make him answer for it.

 

 “You lied to me!” I cried. “You said I can do whatever I want if I find a way. You said I can do anything I set my mind to if I only try.”

 

This hurt. I could see it in his face.  “I do not lie young man and I will thank you not to say so.”   

 

The only thing worse than Father shouting was Father being deadly smooth and quiet.  A yawning precipice opened up before my feet.  It was time to move back a step.

 

“I did not mean it that way.” I mumbled.

 

“Then just what did you mean?” he asked, one black eyebrow raised in pointed, precise enquiry.

 

 _Bema,_ I knew that if I entered a game of verbal jousting with Father I would lose. “I do not know.”  

 

His face softened at my inelegant retreat. “Oh lad, being an esquire is expected but it does not have to be.  I would have given anything to have a chance to do otherwise. To not have been forced to be something I was not, bending endlessly this way and that around the difficulties and the setbacks."   A momentary pain skittered behind his eyes. "Bending steel too much changes it forever. You have no idea.”

 

 He swallowed hard.  A muscle jumped high on his cheek but he carried on.

 

“You have a chance to focus on your learning. On healing if you are still excited by it. That is why your mother and I, your uncles and the King fought so very hard. Not so that you would have to learn to fight. So you would not have to!”

 

Did that help? No. It seemed he still did not understand.  I only wanted to be like my fellows and did not want to be excused.  By the end of his recitation I was positively vibrating with the frustration of it all.  

 

“Thank you so very much.” I cried. “Excuse me if I do not see this as the better deal!”

 

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

 

I bolted out the study and through the entry hall.  I did not run for I had learned to conserve my energy and never ran unless it was an emergency. The screened summer door gave a satisfactorily loud slam as I pulled it shut with all my might.

 

I had only a moment to note the veranda chairs were occupied before I hustled past.

 

 _Oh Bema_.

 

We had been quite loud enough for Mother and the King and Queen to hear.

 

 

\---------------------------------------

 

 

I am told I was always a self-contained and quiet child. Unlike my elder brother I did not run when I could walk. Unlike my sister I was never in a hurry to do anything. I barely cried, content to sit and watch, as I had done from the moment I was born (a monumental relief for Mother after Fin, of course). I was my father’s son with my mother’s colouring, easygoing and gentle, so naturally attuned to him that I think my first memory was of his voice, not hers.

 

How did they know? There is family lore in that as well, though I do not remember well. Mother noticed that I did not jump and was too easily knocked off my feet.

 

“I didn’t do it. He just fell.” was ‘Bron’s ready line, and that was true enough.

 

I remember crying with frustration and the pain of two skinned knees, sent flying by Eldarion’s excited little puppy outside the Citadel. The prince was mortified and the King, I am told, gave him grief for not training the creature better. I can picture the worried looks that must have been exchanged above my tear-streaked face. Shortly after there came the endless visits to the Minas Tirith healers. Once even, I was examined by the King’s brother, Lord Elladan. Yes, they had seen and heard of this, for a child to be born this way. The muscles’ weakness would get worse as the body grew. Most ominously they were not certain that I would always walk, though I was not told that then.

 

In the way of small children I just accepted it. Nothing that was tried really made a difference.  I came to view lying with the herbs placed upon my legs as a particularly gruesome kind of boring torture.

 

With time the changes were clear enough. I had little muscle on my father’s naturally lean physique. My chest and back were somewhat twisted, my hands and fingers weak. I tired more easily than all the rest. I suppose my stoic nature was in part my own and part what I simply learned. The quickly hidden look of anguish on my parents’ faces at times hurt worse than the pain itself and so I came to feel there was simply no point in speaking of it. I focused on my studies (I learned more easily than ‘Bron much to his chagrin) and I did my chores. All the while I cared. Deeply. About everything. My sister did as well but I did not hang it on my sleeve to twist and writhe.

 

That day it had simply been all too much. I wound up of course in my private sanctuary, the miniature hospital behind the stables I tended as carefully as Mother did the people of the village. Mablung, amongst his many skills a terrific carpenter, had built me a shed with shelves for herbs and bandages, a workbench and rows of hutches. It was rarely empty, the folk knew to bring smaller animals to me. That day the most urgent case was a pet rabbit with a broken leg. I worked the latch and pulled her carefully out, minding the stiff leather collar on her neck to keep her from chewing at the splint.

 

I unwound the bandages to check that the wound above the break was healing, mind only half upon my job.  I nursed my resentment as intently as my patient. It was unfair. I had a half-way thought out plan. Uncle Imrahil was prepared to try. Why should Father have to have the final say?

 

I fumed and spread salve upon the doe and tied the splint back on her leg. All the while a niggling voice inside my head told me I had unfairly tried to shoot the messenger after the fact instead of trying to gain acceptance from the start. _Stubborn._  Yes, but if so I had learned it from a master. And just this once I did not wish to be the first to apologize.

 

A faint footfall sounded upon on the grass. Ranger quiet. I did not turn around. I was not going to make it easy for him.  Not going to turn and acknowledge I had been at greater fault. Let Father speak first.  That I would account a victory.

 

“It smells as if you have comfrey in your salve. Am I correct?”

 

The voice was too deep to be my father’s.  I started and turned around.

 

Oh _Valar_ , it was the King.

 

He stood at ease against the jamb, arms crossed, dressed casually in a linen shirt and breeches, a thoughtful look upon his handsome face. The bright sunlight glinted on the flecks of silver in his darker hair.

 

“Yes sir.” I nodded and let out a steadying breath. The doe was struggling against my hand, eager to be away. Relieved at this excuse, I turned back toward the bench.  He was not intimidating, not exactly. Just so very _there_. The King’s presence quite naturally filled the space around. Even though he was to treat my home as his, as my parents always made quite clear, I _had_ created an awful fuss in front of guests.   I could not help but be more than a trifle nervous.

 

The doe, sensing my agitation, began to struggle, and so hastily I scooped her up. I held her with my stronger hand and thus my right, my more unwilling hand, had to struggle with the latch. Once, twice, three times I tried to get the blasted thing to open but it would not budge. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. I tried again. I was not going to blubber in front of the King, no matter how frustrated I was by all of it.

 

“May I hold the patient?” A large and steady hand was offered quietly, to take or not.

 

Oh, but I loved this man. He somehow knew that to have offered to do the latch would only have upset me all the more.

 

I nodded and passed the rabbit over, free to work the offending metal with my left. Without a word, a moment later he passed her back and I shut the hutch once more.  Clearly, it was time to talk with Mablung about changing the design.

 

“Come lad, it is a fine and sunny day. Let us walk a ways.” The King’s hand upon my shoulder was warm and solid. Very gently he steered me towards the door.

 

It was glorious and warm. The birds were quiet in the heat of the afternoon but the tree frogs droned loudly in their absence. We walked slowly as I always did, out past the kitchen garden and through the garden grass. I stole a glance back to toward the house. Mother and the Queen were still sitting on the porch. Father I could not see.

 

“You do realize he is afraid.”

 

The King’s comment was quite startling. Father afraid?   How could my brave and amazing father ever be afraid?

 

“He loves you more than anything in all of Arda, Theo.  I know he is worried you could get hurt and certainly be teased. Those who grew up with you respect your effort and your heart.  But it is not likely to be so very easy with lads who do not know you well.”

 

I pondered this. The boys on the estate I had known for ever, but I knew they would never have dared to touch or taunt me with ‘Bron around. Just the thought of being pounded by my brother’s meaty fists was more than a deterrent. He would have done it too. Elboron was always fierce in his support of me. To protect and look out for each other was something Father had drummed into us all.

 

“I am not afraid of taunting. I do not care how different I look or what they think. I will work twice as long but slowly if I have to. And Elfwine will have my back.”

 

It was a rather strident, impassioned speech but he did not seem to take it ill. We had arrived at the northern fence, a dry stone wall that ran between the house and gardens and the tenant farms that ringed us round.  I sat against the sun-warmed stone to rest my legs while the King leaned his forearms on the top.

 

“I do not doubt it Theo, but I believe your father is also afraid that if you try to train, if you overwork your body, you might weaken yourself the more.”

 

My heart sank.  I could not say that this was wrong.  Not to him.  The King was a healer after all and I had noticed that my writing hand, the right, was weaker than the left.

 

I took refuge in the obvious.  “But I want to try.”  

 

“Because you think you can. I understand that. No one should be held back. I have always admired how your parents expect as much from you as Bron and Fin.”

 

This was true and I loved both of them intensely for it. They treated me no differently and in fact just as often my backside felt the sting of their correction. This equal approach was far from usual and as a youngster I had noticed that Cook and Nera and even Aunt Thiri at times tended to treat me like some ancient, precious vase that might break if not left quietly on the shelf. This grew tiresome. My wonderful, practical mother insisted I do chores like any child, do them by myself first before asking for help in any way. Lately this happened more and more.  My new found lack of feeling in my wonky feet I kept, unwisely, for the moment to myself.

 

“Theo in reality there are natural limits to many things.”  The King stared straight ahead, admiring the waving golden wheat in the farmer’s field across the wall.  Away in the distance the patchwork of green and gold and yellow fields shimmered in the heat. 

 

 Just as I was about to protest there came a twinkling in his kind grey eyes. “No one here asks your mother to make a meal.”

 

I giggled and placed a hand across my mouth to smother the louder laugh. Mother’s strength was not in the kitchen. Only Father managed to choke her baking down with a smile upon his face.  How hadhe known? 

 

I glanced sidelong and caught the King's customary wry, half-smirk.   “Or your father to keep his study tidy.”

 

Now I laughed outright, I could not help myself. Father’s messiness was legendary. “Mother says it is a hopeless task, like asking the sun to stay up at night.”

 

He chuckled quietly. “Just so.  I, for one, am very glad your father has at least one besetting sin. It makes him feel less impossible to keep up with.”

 

 _The King keeping up with Father?_ The image formed in my mind was quite ridiculous. Father worked hard, hard at doing everything to the best of his ability. But the King, well, he seemed quite simply effortlessly good at _everything_.

 

We walked along the wall in thoughtful silence, cutting up slope a little. Father, who liked to walk when he was thinking, had cut a number of walking paths through the trees. We knew them well, had a name for each, and by instinct I chose the Trail of Fifty.  It had been improved by Elboron for the occasion of Father’s fiftieth birthday, if you can call cutting everything green right to the ground improvement.

 

Automatically as strolled I made an inventory of the plants growing by the verge. Mother needed wild borage for her stores.  It was stronger than what we grew. With a little effort I assumed I would find some near.  I kept my eyes upon the ground for many minutes, intent upon my self-appointed task.

 

I was avoiding the issue that most bothered me and well my companion knew it.

 

The King was particularly skilled at keeping quiet. Not just in ‘skulking’ as we children called it, but in a conversation.  He had an uncanny skill of comfortably letting the quiet stretch to fill a space until one felt one should really speak. Before the weight of silence became too great.

 

“But none of that really matters!”  The words blurted out at last with surprising force.

 

He bent to pick up a willow switch beside the trail and began to run it along the standing trees, much as I had done as a younger lad.  I could not tell what he was thinking.   Once, he seemed about to speak but quickly closed his mouth. The willow made a satisfying twak against the bark.

 

I looked but did not find the herb I sought.  Yet another injustice for my day.

 

“I hate this stupid disease!”

 

There came a sigh. We had finally gotten round the important bit.

 

“Of course.” The deep voice was mild, as if unsurprised by my heartfelt cry.

 

“Why should it be getting worse now?”

 

“Your body is having trouble adjust to your growth.”   I was taller that was true. My eyes were almost level with his chin. I no longer had to crane my neck to see his face.

 

I picked up a switch of my own, sullenly stripped the thin, papery bark from off its sides. “Is he very angry?”

 

“No, that is your sister’s job these days.”   We both smiled. Fin could try anyone’s patience, even my legendary calm and steady father.

 

“Shall we sit?”

 

Our pace had slowed. My legs, as usual, were getting tired. We found a fallen log on which to perch and out came his pouch and long-stemmed pipe. I watched as the King cleaned out the bowl and put a fresh pinch of pipeweed in. He pressed it down. His fingers were long as father’s and still callused. It always amazed me that he found the time to train. 

 

A little more weed was added, tamped down again and then a match was lit. By the time he had the pipe drawing to his satisfaction I had shredded every bit of bark from off my switch. Lost in my little world of misery I was surprised by his quiet words.

 

“Do you know what some of the most frightening words of my young life were?”

 

“No sir.” I shook my head. My short braid shifted.  Nervously, I tucked a stray blond strand back behind my ear. I could not imagine what he would say.

 

“Welcome to Rivendell.”

 

He smiled at the surprise upon my face. “They were spoken by a tall and rather forbidding Elven lord with a strange and difficult accent. I was terrified. My father had died and my mother had wept for weeks at night when she thought I couldn’t hear. I was allowed to sleep in my grandmother’s bed and assumed we might stay there forever. Suddenly, I found myself in a strange place I had not asked to be. ” He glanced up to make sure I was following along.  Another cloud of blue-grey smoke wreathed us round.

 

“I thought we were just visiting but soon learned it was to be our home. The Eldar were beyond kind to us but for a bewildered little boy Imladris was quite intimidating. The food tasted funny and I was worried I might fall out of the higher bed.  Everything was strange and unfamiliar and took some getting used to. I had to learn it all again. A new language.  What to say to whom.  New rules.  It was not horrible but neither was it what I expected the world to really be. Though I understood my father was forever gone, I did not understand why everything had changed." 

 

“I am so sorry, Sir.” I said and meant it.  I knew the King had grown up with Elves but had never heard so many of the details.

 

A simple nod and squeeze on my shoulder gave his thanks. Now the long legs stretched outward and the pipe was laid beside. One knee was drawn up toward his chest and hands clasped lightly round.

 

“In time I found things to like about it. It was a world much slower-paced than I had known and when I let myself open my eyes honestly I saw many wonderful things I had not noticed right away. Music, and art, and lore and a natural beauty unrivaled, I think, anywhere.” He cocked his head. The grey eyes held my own and held me fast. “Do you understand what I am saying, Theomund?”

 

I hesitated, wanting to not let him down. “That a place that seems not so great at first can be better than you think?”

 

“Yes,” and the now his gaze bored even harder. “Or a way that we must live can have benefits when we look beyond the difficulties.”

 

I fiddled now with a stalk of grass and ruminated on this awhile. I noticed the shadows around the dappled sunlight had grown longer still and worried for a moment that he was missing his ride with Father. He seemed untroubled by it and so I tried harder not to fret.

 

He also picked up a ripened stalk and ran the smooth green stem between his thumb and finger. A mound of short green seeds were stripped and clustered tightly at the top. “Tree or bush?”

 

I knew this game. “Tree!” I said and he dropped the stem. I was right. A long piece of green trailed below the seeds. I picked another blade and tried myself.   Unthinkingly, I used my weaker hand, my thumb would not grip hard enough. When I pulled the whole stalk it slid right through.

 

Furiously, I threw the blade away.   _My bloody stupid fingers!_   He was trying to help I knew and I appreciated it.  But how could he or anyone truly understand?

 

 “You did not have a lifelong burden! Something that you were born with.  From which you cannot escape.”

 

“Did I not?”

 

 _Oh_.  I felt such an idiot.  Of course he did.  He was the King. 

 

 “I daresay being King looks a bit of a lark now, but it was not always crowns and sceptres, silks and grand receiving halls.”  The ready smile I loved so much flashed briefly but just as quickly stilled.  It felt as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. 

 

“When I was a young man and first learned of my birthright I was stunned. I had thought that I would become a healer, not the leader of many brave and hunted men, fighting every moment of the next seventy years to keep the people safe. For a while I struggled to accept it, to adapt.   But I could no more escape it than you can your own illness.”

 

I hung my head but he quickly shook my shoulder, not prepared to let me mope.

 

“Your situation, Theo, is in some ways is only a little different. You’ve arrived in Rivendell to stay when you thought you just were visiting and now you need to adapt. Find the unexpected, happy things in a situation you cannot change. Sometimes a burden can also be a gift.”

 

I blinked. What happy things could there truly be in a bloody painful, frustrating illness? “But I want to be normal!” Somehow with him I could admit it. I would never say it to my parents. It would hurt them so.

 

“Oh, lad." he sighed. "I think you have been grown up for so long, sometimes we all forget you are still a boy.  Yes, yes you do.  But in this instance you need to find your own. ”

 

 _My own?_   Perhaps.  Perhaps if I let myself just be, I could find it for myself.  I needed to understand  and so I took a chance, hoping the question was not entirely too presumptuous.

 

“When did you realize your burden was a gift?”  I asked.

 

He busied himself a moment packing away his pouch and tamping out his pipe against a rock.  At last the grey eyes became so very thoughtful.

 

“Different times and different places. When I saw a well of courage in young hobbit’s eyes.  When I first heard your father’s voice, weak from days of scorching fever.  When I saw my Undomiel walk up the white stone steps into the Citadel”

 

He saw the confusion in my eyes and tried again. “When I knew that the rewards would be lasting ones. Beyond price. Worth every moment of toil and pain.”

 

What could I say? I had just begun to understand, to see a very little and he had the wisdom of many, many decades.  Forged, I now realized, through an effort and sacrifice that started long before the great battles I knew by heart.  For the first time that fine but fractious day, I felt grateful for my world.

 

“Come, young man. You must seek to find your gift.” He stood, brushed the grass seed off his breeches and held out a hand to help me up. “But first you have an apology to make.”

 

I groaned. I had quite forgotten that. How could I face my father?

 

The King grinned before laying a comforting arm across my shoulders. We walked quite slowly back.  My legs were a little tired and jelly-like and I was determined not to fall.

 

 

\----------------------------------

 

 

The sun was westering fast as we mounted the north porch steps.   Just when I reached the topmost step the King paused and spoke again.  “Tomorrow Theo you need to show me that you can saddle your own horse.”

 

“Really!?”   A hopeful smile lit up my face.  Did he mean it?  Did it mean what I truly hoped?   Already my whirling mind formed a strategy.  Buckling at each notch in turn so I did not have to pull so hard at once.  Maybe El or someone else could tighten the final few?  

 

“If you can find a way to make that work I will see what I can do to convince your father. But,”  he raised his hand,  “only for a year, and only so long as you do not suffer any ill effects.” The grey eyes were very serious. I understood that I would be watched.

 

We stepped onto the porch. I squared my shoulders. The hardest job would be the first.

 

I went to find my father.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Theo's condition is modeled after Charcot-Marie-Tooth disease, a hereditary motor-sensory neuropathy. In the past it was often mistaken for post-polio syndrome in children or multiple sclerosis in older adults. Its estimated occurrence is 1:1800 people and has even been seen in the great apes. Thank you so much to Lia, Adaneth, Annafan, Wheelrider and Gwynnyd for their comments and encouragement.


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